Hello, I'm Famous Starring John Hodgman

Now that I am on television, my life is very different than last time we spoke. For example, I now visit Los Angeles quite frequently. Until recently, my only experience with Los Angeles had been a visit to Universal Studios as a child. This had to have been before 1985, because I remember they still had the "Battle of Galactica" ride in operation. As I'm sure you remember, this was the portion of the Universal Studios tour when the motorized tour tram left the back lot of the studio and somehow ended up in a space station. Once inside the station, robots would shoot lasers at you. Then two men wearing space helmets would bound out and pretend to kill the robots.

I want to be clear Our rescuers were living men, not animatronic creations. "Actors," I suppose you call them. And they would rescue humans several times a day, day after day, but always IN TOTAL SILENCE, because all of their dialogue was played over loudspeakers. It had been recorded long ago, presumably by better actors. I suppose this made the actors very sad, but it made me very happy at the time, and still does.

They closed that ride not long after my visit because the TV show it was based on was canceled, and also weird live spacemime shows went out of fashion at the amusement parks. I may have been the last to see it, and after the ride was over, I sat down on a bench to ponder and absorb this historic moment.

That is when I was approached by a grown man pretending to be Charlie Chaplin.

Now, I guess it is some people's dream to meet Charlie Chaplin, or just someone dressed as him. But even as a 10yearold, I found Chaplin's work to be pretty maudlin and cheap. He was no Buster Keaton, in any case. And as "Chaplin" approached, I considered saying so to his face.

But there was a problem. At this time in my life, I had very long hair. It was an affectation, and an awful one at that. But it was a better affectation, I would argue, than the affectation of dressing up as Charlie Chaplin, even if you are doing it for money.

But this wasn't the problem. The problem was that because I was a small child without a beard or moustache, people routinely thought I was a girl. And this would lead to occasional embarrassing situations. Double takes as I entered the men's room, for example, or being referred to as "Joan," or being expected to kiss Charlie Chaplin on his white powdered cheek. All of these things happened, all of the time.

And so the moment came, after some predictable caneandbowlerhat shenanigans, that Charlie Chaplin sat next to me and indicated that he was ready for me to kiss him. For obvious reasons, his expectations were unspoken, just as mine were quite clear I did not wish to kiss the fake Charlie Chaplin. But let's just say that they didn't call him the Little Tramp for nothing. He waited me out. It was clear that I was powerless. It was clear what was going to happen, and I let it happen.

So that was my introduction to Los Angeles a traumatic, homosexual, silentcomedy date rape.

At the time, I had no idea why someone would expect a complete stranger to want to kiss him on the cheek just for showing up and sitting down. But now I understand. Because now I am on television.

I was thinking about this recently as I sat in the Admirals Club waiting to fly to L.A. An Admirals Club, if you don't know, is a secret pleasure dome in the middle of the airport where the admirals hang out and sing sea chanteys, and it is also where the famous minor television personalities may go to evade the public eye. There are showers there. That's right showers IN THE AIRPORT, and special sandwiches called "paninis," and all of it is free, and all of it is for me.

Because that is what my life is like now glamorous. This is not to say there wasn't glamour in being a FORMER PROFESSIONAL LITERARY AGENT or in being a PROFESSIONAL WRITER. These things are much more glamorous than being a ditchdigger, for example. But on the other hand, they are not that much more glamorous than being a gravedigger.

Think about it. Who would you rather talk to in the Admirals Club A gravedigger or a writer It's a trick question, of course Neither one of them is allowed anywhere near the Admirals Club. And neither has the glamour of being on television.

There is an original definition of the word glamour that I did not know about until I read fantasy novels. It is a kind of magical spell. To "wear a glamour" is to surround yourself with a kind of aura that causes people to see you in a different way. It's a disguise. And being on television is like wearing a disguise that only other people can see.

Sometimes I am asked How is it that you became a famous minor television personality My answer is always the same I went on television. Specifically, I had written a book, and I had been asked to be a guest on a popular television program to promote that book. This went well, and they asked me to come back on the show as a regular. And I did. And next I was asked to audition for a series of ads for a computer company. And I got that job, too.

It's your pretty typical, mundane, overnight Hollywood success story. The only thing that makes it unusual is that it actually happened more or less OVERNIGHT, and largely by accident. And as a result, I am older and fatter and more walleyed and tweedy than most people embarking on a television career.

I am not being modest. When you are on television, you don't just see the pose you've perfected for the mirror. You see yourself from all angles, clearly and cruelly, as if you were in the body of another person.

Here are some of the words Internet blogs have used to describe me

**pudgy

chubby

round

stout

tubby

portly

cutie

**

That last one came from a Web site that includes a regular feature mapping celebrity sightings in New York City. In this case, the anonymous tipster reported, accurately, that I was taking the B train south from my observatory on the Upper West Side, where I then lived.

Here's what happened from my point of view. I was riding the train. I had been wearing my brown jeans and brown coat—an outfit a neighbor of mine had said made me look like a UPS man. I was just deciding never to speak to that neighbor again when a woman got on the train. She gave me a quick double take, as if I were a girl in the men's bathroom. Then a man came on the train and did the same thing.

Now, which one was it Which one of my fellow travelers was the anonymous tipster I will never know. Neither of them seemed drunk or insane, and yet one of them must have been the one who told the Internet that I was a "cutie." Whoever it was, they went on to note that I also looked like a UPS man. So here is a fashion tip from the stars NO BROWN JEANS.

After that, these unexpected brushes with fame—in which, unexpectedly, I was the famous person—started happening with some frequency

THE RADIOSHACK

Big Y Plaza, Greenfield, Massachusetts

The young guy at the counter asks me to autograph an old receipt. "What are you doing here" he asks, in a voice that contains a host of further questions, such as "What are you doing in MASSACHUSETTS In GREENFIELD At RADIOSHACK"

(ANSWER I was buying speaker wire.)

A TOY STORE NEAR MY OLD UPPER WEST SIDE OBSERVATORY

I am waiting for my daughter, Hodgmina, to complete her many purchases. A man is there with his own daughter. We say hello, as parents do.

Then he gives me a conspiratorial look and says, "You ARE John Hodgman."

"Yes," I say. Then I pause. I ask him why he put it just that way. Why did he say, "You ARE John Hodgman"

The man then explains that he had seen me and my family in Riverside Park the previous weekend, having a picnic.

"That is true," I say.

He then explains that he and his wife had an argument about it. They fought over whether I really WAS John Hodgman. And that when he saw me just now, he realized that it really had been me that day in the park, having lunch with my family, completely unaware that I was being watched and scrutinized the entire time by strangers.

"Yes," I say. "That was me."

He smiles now, realizing he has won the argument with his wife. "So," he says. "You must live in this neighborhood."

I admit that is true.

"Where, exactly" he says.

And then I tell Hodgmina it is time to go. She will have to buy all her toys and clothes another time.

THE MUSEUM OF TELEVISION & RADIO

New York City

I go to a party to celebrate the new season of Battlestar Galactica—not the old version that had the ride at Universal Studios but the new one, in which the robots are erotic (finally). I am here because I had written about the show for a national magazine back when I was merely a professional writer. Before I had ever been on television.

Now at the party I am enjoying catching up with one of the show's creators, whom I met when I was writing the article, and I am trying to oer him my congratulations on the success of the show. But he isn't listening. He wants to know how it happened. How I have gone from writing about TV to actually appearing on TV.

I explain it to him as I explained it to you. And then I confess a certain shame. That I have leapt past thousands, millions of trained actors and journeyman performers to get a job that I have not earned. I did not pay any dues. I did not even need to work, for example, many long and silent days in the "Battle of Galactica" ride.

At that very moment, a waiter passing a tray of cocktails with luminous sci ice cubes in them comes by and says he hopes I am feeling better. And it takes me a moment to realize that he is referring to a television advertisement in which I pretend to have a sneezing t.

I laugh and tell him thank you.

Then, like a sneezing fit, it does not stop. One person after another comes up to me, talking about the ads, wanting to say hello. Soon an Academy Award–winning actress is shaking my hand and congratulating me for a job well done on the television.

It is very fun, but it is also confusing—for me, and for everybody. Suddenly, no one knows why I am there anymore. I don't fit in. What role am I supposed to be playing at this party Am I a journalist A fan Or am I now a minor, Elist TV personality, there to lend the party a little Elist buzz This kind of hierarchical uncertainty is unwanted at any party, never mind a television party, and I worry that I am somehow ruining the night for my space friends. The first moment I can, I sneak away and go home alone in the rain.

APPLE STORE, SOHO

General storewide freakout. I am asked to pose with people for cellphone pictures. The store greeter cannot believe it is me. She jumps up and down. They don't know why I am there.

(ANSWER iPod docking cable.)

Someone on staff starts to play videos of me on a giant screen. Suddenly, I am like a mascot walking around a theme park. I'm Charlie Chaplin at Universal Studios, and everyone is rushing to kiss me.

When you are a young person, all of this feels inevitable. It feels inevitable that you will be on television. Or an astronaut. Or the president. It is hardwired into every gland, this ambition to be known and renowned.

Then, of course, you grow older, pudgier, stouter, portly. You have children, or get a job, or are drawn by fate to one life or another. Only the deranged don't notice that the possibilities for their life are narrowing. And only the happy look around and say, That is fine. I accept that I will never be a famous minor television personality. At least I have written this wonderful book of fake trivia. I am happy.

Then, just when you've discarded the last shred of a shred of a shred of the fantasy of, say, being an astronaut, it is unsettling to have someone knock on your door one day and say Time to go into outer space. You don't get used to it. You put on the spacesuit and you learn to eat dehydrated food and you learn to poop while floating upside down, but you never feel like you're really supposed to be up there, orbiting the earth.

Honestly, now that I think about it, you don't even have to go into space at all to get this feeling. You can get the same feeling just by being asked to PRETEND to go into outer space by, for example, doing a cameo appearance on Battlestar Galactica. Which is exactly what happened to me.

These days, when I come to L.A., it is not traumatic. It's a lovely city, and especially so if you are on television. Recently, I was there, and I stayed in a very fancy hotel. The woman at the door greeted me by name before I even checked in. When I had drinks in the lobby, a short man and a tall woman called me over to their table.

"We just want to say thank you," they said. "You are great on television."

And I stayed in a room where, I have been told, a famous person died. It was all very perfect and glamorous. In fact, I'm nervous about saying anything more about it, for fear that I would upset the hotel.

Naturally, I saw a number of other celebrities there. I don't want to tell you their names. We in the fame game don't reveal such secrets.

Okay. I will tell you.

First, I rode in an elevator with Jerry Stiller. He had just been out, lying by the pool. He was in a robe, and the elevator was very hot and small, and the whole experience combined to make it feel as though I were WEARING Jerry Stiller.

The next sighting came as I was checking out of my room. My room had a private entrance to the street. I had pulled up my car and was putting my suitcases in the trunk.

The door to the next room opened. A man came out. I nodded to him—just a couple of fellow guests at the hotel. Neighbors, really. It was Justin Timberlake. "Good morning," I said.

He was startled. I don't mind telling you that Justin Timberlake was intensely disturbed by this. He literally recoiled and made a sort of grunt. And as Justin Timberlake grunted at me, I realized, in a way I never could have understood before, what I had done to this poor millionaire superstar. I made him feel trapped and cornered, and I felt terrible about it. And even as I followed him down the street, screaming his name, trying to take a picture of his vagina, I still felt terrible about it.

I don't know if I'll get to stay at that hotel again. Television came along and cast this glamour on me. It would be naive to imagine that the spell could not break just as quickly. That's a Hollywood story, right To be discovered out of nowhere, and then to be forgotten. That's showbiz. As a matter of fact, sometimes now, if I'm feeling tired or a little sad, I'll go put on my UPSman outfit and hit the subway. I'll hope that maybe someone will recognize me. It's very embarrassing, isn't it

But most of the time, it doesn't happen. No matter how crowded it is, no one says anything. They are reading, talking, thinking about where the train is taking them next. They don't say anything to me at all. And that's when I sit back, and look at them all, and think to myself Don't any of you have a television What THE FUCK is wrong with you people I'M SITTING RIGHT HERE!

THE PERKS OF FAME

PERK! FIRST CLASS ALL THE WAY!

When I travel now to Los Angeles for television work, I am lucky enough to be flown FIRST CLASS. For those of you who have not flown rst class, here are some of its astonishing features. See if you can guess which one is not true

They encourage you to drink free champagne the second you get on board.

They offer you a seat in a gigantic armchair that is so smooth and gray it feels like it was upholstered with the skin of one hundred wise grandfathers.

They give you warm nuts the moment you sit down.

Before dinner, they wheel around a salad cart and prepare a salad to your precise specifications.

Later, they bring the same cart around and allow you to make your own sundae.

They give you miniature people in a cage whom you can force to dance.

Have you figured it out No, not the bit about the grandfathers. That was just a SIMILE. The correct answer is that they do not give you miniature people in a cage, because they have not perfected the shrink ray yet. But the rest is absolutely true.

Now, I do not want to make a joke about airplane food, because that is a comedy cliché. But I am curious, and I want to ask a legitimate question. If you are at home, and you think to yourself, "I would like some mid nuts now," does it occur to you to go to the microwave and warm them up until they are almost impossible to touch Is this something that everyone does all the time Or am I simply in error thinking that it is strange and unnecessary and exotic

THIS IS NOT A JOKE. IT'S AN HONEST QUESTION.

But I do have to ask WHAT'S THE DEAL WITH THE SALAD CART Is this really the best way for American Airlines to be spending its time and money Doesn't this distract from the shrinkray project

That, at least, is the question I posed on the comment card. And let me tell you, the typist they provided to take my commentcard dictation was really very talented and later massaged me with beer.

PERK! YOUR OWN BUS!

When you are on television and you are in Los Angeles for work, you are like a kind of breathing prop. A car takes you from the airport to your hotel to the studio. You are moved from place to place, told what to wear and where to stand, then you are told to go back to your dressing room and await further orders. If you are like me and you find even the smallest decisions endlessly complex in their possible ramifications (and also if you hate to move), it is wonderful.

Now, before you ask, the dressing rooms are not very exciting. I don't ask for expensive champagne or bowls of green M&M's or hundreds of little monkeys the size of your thumb like some stars you've heard about.

One time I was offered a trailer, and I said, "Sure." They hired a jet black Greyhound bus with tinted windows. Inside, all the seats had been taken out, and black carpeting had been put down. There was a black leather banquette and no other furniture. The airconditioning was very powerful and very loud, and it spread around the lingering smell of bus bathroom and rock musicians having sex.

"This is too much," I explained to the two guys in velvet jumpsuits who came with the bus. "I'm happy just to have a couch to sit on and a door to close for a moment. A scented candle. Maybe just a few ferrets, just to take the edge off. But really This is too fancy."

So I went back to my modest, spare dressing room, and I ordered the bus to be destroyed.

PERK! CHILDREN PRETENDING TO BE YOU!

But you can't let the dressing room seduce you. I learned this on a recent television job in which I met two child actors.

One was cast to be the younger me. The other was cast to be the younger version of my costar.

I won't tell you the name of the one cast as the younger version of my costar. But I will say it was one of those names that sounded like an actual name, but it was not a real name. Like JAYCE or BRANDONEON.

He was a professional. We had worked together once before, and he remembered my name and shook my hand and looked me straight in the eye. He asked how I had been. It was unnerving—the queasying feeling of a child possessing the faculties of the adult. I felt as the Austrian court might have felt when they saw the young Mozart play piano blindfolded and ran from the room screaming.

Then there was the second child, the child who was to play me. I did not find this child to be unnerving because he was professional (he was, grasping my hand firmly and staring straight into my eyes with the beaming, warm headlight eyes of a usedcar salesman).

I found him unnerving because he looked exactly like me. Not me as a child but as an older man. He was wearing a suit, which had something to do with it, but he also had an older man's gait and paunch. He had the "Hey there!" demeanor of a happy old retired fella. He even had an older man's name. Like Herm or Benny or Izzy.

It is bizarre to stare into the face of someone else's vision of who you were as a child. This is not something that will ever happen unless you are on television or in a movie. It is stranger still when it's accurate. Obviously, the casting folks weren't totally accurate in their picture Where was the long hair Or for that matter, the black fedora and briefcase and my ever present falcon, Isidor But they got one thing right At the age of 9, I was already an old, crotchety man, a Buster Keaton fan, and a crank.

I finished shaking Izzy's hand. Then I went to act for them. It was explained to me that my costar and I would do our scene first, while the two of them watched, Brandoneon and Izzy.

"Why" I asked.

So that they can observe my body language and imitate it, it was explained to me. Which is to say They are ACTUAL actors. And so I said of course.

I trust you can appreciate the twisted, dreamlike quality of what followed, as I stood onstage to do something I had never trained to do for the amusement of my little doppelgänger, who had probably hundreds more hours of experience than me. I kept looking into Izzy's eyes. He was studying me, becoming me. And certainly, he was judging me.

I couldn't remember my lines. I couldn't do anything right.

Was not my younger self looking in disgust at my present self and thinking "amateur"

Finally, after many, many bad takes, we were through.

I could not bring myself to do the gracious thing and watch their performance. I instead went back to my dressing room, fed the ferrets, lit a scented candle, and napped until the whole thing was over with.

When I got back to the set, everyone couldn't stop talking about how great Brandoneon and Izzy had been. They had done it all in two takes. It was unbelievable. And at the end, Izzy, out of nowhere, broke into song. He serenaded the crew with his rendition of "You Make Me Feel So Young."

And this is what I missed when I was hiding out in my dressing room covering my eyes and smelling a scented candle a 9yearold dressed as a 40yearold singing about his need to feel young again. I will never see anything like that again. Is this what it means to live as a celebrity, hidden in my cocoon of candles and privilege and ferrets To miss out on life itself

The one downside of fame is that no one will ever be really honest with you. There have been lots of times when I will be doing an "acting job" and I know I messed up. Maybe I forgot a line or missed a cue. Maybe I showed up drunk. Or maybe I refused to show up at all because they didn't get me into first class on the way out or someone made eye contact with me.

Even then they still say "You did great. Nice job. You're brilliant. You were right to refuse to come to the set and to hit me with your cane. I'm sorry I looked at you."

THAT'S NOT WHAT I WANT TO HEAR. I know when I've messed up, and like any artist, I need and want honest feedback. But it will never come.

It took me a while to understand why this is so, but now I get it. I'm just a small cog in a much larger machine. It's not just me on the set. There's the director, the producers, the camera operators, and the gaffers; there are the grips and the best boys and the worst boys and the yellowblooded dwarves; there are the soundies and the boomies and the proppies and the crafties, not to mention the tallboys, the catapultmen and the sunwranglers, the keymasters, the gatekeepers, and the turkey and the pitch. All these people are doing their jobs, the whole shoot consuming thousands of dollars per hour. They simply can't afford to worry that much about my performance or risk sending me into a funk. They'd prefer to "yes" me along to the next take. Because if all those people are doing their jobs right (and they always do, except for the yellowblooded dwarves, who are fuckups), I'm going to end up looking good onscreen no matter what.

So I've learned to accept the empty praise with grace and humility and just move on to the next shot. You learn to develop your own inner compass. So that even when someone tells you, "You know, that wasn't really your best work," you know, instinctively, they're just telling you what you want to hear. It probably was your best work. YOUR BEST WORK EVER.

John Hodgman is the author of the bestseller The Areas of My Expertise. A contributor to The Daily Show, he lives in Brooklyn. Excerpted from More Information Than You Require by John Hodgman, out this month from Dutton.

Use of this site constitutes acceptance of our User Agreement (effective 1/4/2014) and Privacy Policy (effective 1/4/2014).The material on this site may not be reproduced, distributed, transmitted, cached or otherwise used, except with prior written permission of Condé Nast.